


Running with Wolves

by samtaku



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Badass Jaskier, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rating May Change, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, character exploration, ciri deserves happiness, dad geralt, hopefully worth it, mom yennefer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samtaku/pseuds/samtaku
Summary: Do you know what it takes to run with wolves?When word of war reached Jaskier, he packed his bags and left to find his Witcher.“You are the only thing in my damn life that is not destiny’s doing, Jas, you are the only one who could escape without her giving a fuck and for some unfathomable reason you won’t leave.”Reworked
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 384





	1. Stop pining, Jaskier.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something. The first something I make. Please be kind to me, as I am not!
> 
> Important: I'm eyeballing things here! I have watched the show and started playing Witcher 3 (loving it!) but am still learning to navigate the witcherverse (if that's even a thing). Don't want to give it the "blaviken treatment" (butcher it, haha) so feel free to give me pointers ;)  
> \+ I am my own beta and I such at it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back with a re-worked story!

In the heart of Oxenfurt, drunks and fools liked to masquerade as scholars, using the war as an excuse for slacking off scientifically and thinking their fine garments and pseudo-philosophical statements made up for their severe lack of scholastic achievements of late. Jaskier did count himself among the scholars, however reluctantly, but he still thought himself better. In his opinion, anyone who fooled and extorted fools, was exempt from such terminology himself, and as he had earned his place among the ranks of those smart enough to do so by basically robbing these people blind with the promise of new tales on the way, he was no idiot. 

“Do you know what it takes to run with wolves?” he bellowed into the room. The wooden interior and fine tapestries did nothing to calm the rowdy patrons, much to the barkeep’s displeasure. Jaskier wasn’t helping the situation either, which earned him the same judgemental glare levelled at the guests.

He continued anyway. 

“To follow a witcher goes against all human instinct of self-preservation, wouldn’t you agree? What strength and prowess a witcher must possess to actively seek out Striga and Bruxa alike! What a beast a witcher must be, to make prey of the monsters that haunt nightmares. Did you know a witcher digs around in still warm copses, animal carcasses and monstrous masses to consume them?" Technically, that was correct. "He who cleanses the world of monsters only to himself become more and more unclean. Marred by guts and flesh and drenched in evil. Who dare even approach? Who would be foolish enough to mistake such a slayer, a butcher, a beast for a man? 

So I ask ye who listen again! Do you know what it takes to run with a wolf?”

“A lot of drink!” a man shouted out from a table close by. 

“An empty head,” a whore stated from the sidelines, much too loud for Jaskier’s taste. 

“Paws,” some idiot who clearly hadn’t understood the metaphor slurred, dangerously green in the face.

“Ha! All good suggestions, not mutually exclusive, my friends. But when it comes right down to it, you’ll see an enormous pair is what you need!”

His audience cheered and laughed, toasted to what was basically nonsense. He often found it beneficial to slightly exaggerate his past adventures with Geralt in these stuffy taverns where he played not just for money, but for something he had lost -- to rouse interest. A lifestyle taken from him by war and… well, Geralt. The man liked to act the ass, so precisely because Jaskier had left his last interaction with the man like a kicked puppy, he’d for once use Geralt’s former bad reputation instead of the new one Jaskier had carefully crafted for him. What if the man hadn’t spoken to him in a good while, what if there were a war and too many hurtful words separating them? It didn’t change anything and nobody needed to know. Certainly nobody was hurt by the fact that Jaskier had to opt for… sometimes, maybe, slightly inventing new adventures that hadn’t actually happened but he could now pass off as more truthful due to the fact that he’d actually learnt things about beasts on his travels with Geralt. Or something. 

“And of course,” he winked at the patrons, “Coin. Lots of it. So what should the gentlemen and ladies do?”

He strummed his lute in anticipation and almost let the crowd do the rest of the work, bellowing his magnum opus 'Toss a Coin to your Witcher' which he now cursed, as all his other good work seemed to go with too little recognition for his taste. His tunes were catchy and popular, no doubt about it, but somehow he could never surpass himself in the public’s eye. And now he never would, because the Jaskier who had composed his biggest hits had left him with Geralt. 

As he sang he kept an eye out for a white mane in the corners of the bar. Geralt would never mingle, no, he’d be sat in the dark, apart, just brooding in that aloof manner Jaskier adored. Two days ago he’d almost been certain he’d seen the glint of yellow eyes underneath the shadow of a hood as he navigated the streets of Oxenfurt, heading back to his rooms at the academy. He’d been inebriated of course, and in bad company, but he had been so certain he had passed Geralt, Geralt had finally come...until he’d sobered up. The only thing that made him doubt his eyesight that night was that those particular yellow eyes usually made him feel warm and that night he’d felt a freezing cold send a shiver down his spine. Like death itself had caressed his cheek. But he’d soon come to the conclusion that it had been a cold breeze. And if that truly had been Geralt, the hooded figure would not have passed him so swiftly, wordlessly, heartlessly. Or so he had to believe. 

“Sing one more, professor!” a student of his shouted. He remembered her, smart as a whip and could clearly hold her liquor better than her passed out companion. 

“Remind me of your name, dear?”

“Laura, Sir.”

“You’re telling me the bard famous for rowdy songs about ploughing trolls teaches at our very own Oxenfurt, Laura?”, a guy in the most unflattering color of aubergine mocked. 

“You remember my… less inspired songs, my friend. A true fan!”

“He graduated summa cum laude, collected years of experience--”

“Not that many years, I'm still young--”

“And is the best teacher I’ve ever bloody had. Show some respect.” 

Jaskier did indeed currently occupy a teaching position at Oxenfurt, as well as the thoughts of beautiful learned maidens. With the Nilfgaardian war efforts looming darkly above everyone’s head, he needed a distraction and he’d always succumbed easily to infatuation. For some reason though, he did not have the heart to lay with anyone of late. As much as he tried, no one sparked his interest and he failed to connect. He was probably really getting old. To make matters worse, without constant occupation, his thoughts kept drifting to Geralt. Not that they’d ever stopped doing that. 

Where was the man? Was he alright? 

“Now, now, we’re all friends here! Maybe something more sophisticated for the gent, right Laura? Some mine, a tale of love and loss? ‘Her sweet kiss’?”

He sang and he truly felt the words flow from his lips, sincere poison, disgusting jealousy and sorrow. The piece rang too true. When he’d left after the fiasco with the golden dragon, he of course hadn’t expected anything of Geralt. Sometimes he imagined what it would have been like if the witcher had followed him to apologize. It was so absurd, it made Jaskier snicker. 

Though, eventually, some sort of apology certainly would be appreciated, he knew the words the witcher had spoken had been uttered in sheer frustration and helplessness, not maliciousness. 

He’d seen it in his eyes: the grief. The Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf, had been hurt and afraid. Like a wounded animal backed into a corner he had lashed out. All because of her sweet kiss. For the first time in maybe ever, he’d given his heart to somebody and trusted her with it so completely... without even realizing. Only to have it shattered. Not that Yen was to blame either. He understood her anxieties, her qualms with Geralt. The fool had wonderfully escalated their situation, after all. 

The horrible thing is -- he could see why Geralt had made that wish too, even if subconsciously. Though he knew not the details of what had been asked of the djinn, he was of sound mind (despite the startling lack of people who would attest to that, with him following a witcher into danger all the time). Geralt and Yen both had such a deep-seated craving for love, true love. Geralt had been abandoned by his own mother at such a young age. Jaskier sensed that Yen was the same, though he only had her blatantly indicative behavior to judge by. 

Truth was, Jaskier completely understood that Geralt hadn’t come after him or found him for a while after. He’d needed time to heal. But was it too much to ask for a simple word of goodbye? He’d expected to just come across the man at the foot of the mountain, to regularly say their goodbyes and part ways for a while. He wasn't truly angry with him. The words hadn't been serious, hadn't been an issue until they became the last thing Geralt said to him for an entire year. A last goodbye certainly would have lessened his embarrassment when they inevitably reunited. When the Witcher didn’t turn up, Jaskier had left, paying for Roach to be taken care of for a month, assuming Geralt had taken another path off the mountain and would circle back for the mare eventually. Did he then go to Rivia to piece his heart back together? Geralt wasn't actually from there, though... Kaedwen was full of distractions, much like Oxenfurt. Maybe a relaxing spa winter at Kaer Morhen? 

But Jaskier’s heart, though rationally knowing Geralt’s words were simply spoken to blow off steam, was still occupied with the hurt the Witcher had inflicted. He kept thinking, and thinking was very bad for Jaskier when it came to matters of the heart. He was growing more and more sure that the Witcher had no reason to want Jaskier’s company back in his life. He had been ashamed at his delusions of a grand friendship. It hurt and he was ashamed that it did. It made him self-conscious in an ugly manner he didn’t care for. 

So he tried not to think. But his songs gave him away more often than not. Laura was eying him in a manner he deeply disliked. It said ‘I see you-- your song is sincere, which makes you a liar.’ Did it make truly one a liar to pretend the truth one sang was a lie? That was cruel. But then again, Jaskier had always been a liar -- a liar in love, in his craft, in essence.

That night Jaskier went home sober. Right after that final song he excused himself and walked out the tavern into the cold autumn air, lute in hand, coin purse full and heart empty. 

He passed Benji in the streets and didn’t even try to mess with the man and make him flustered. He did need distractions, but it was hard when news of the fall of Cintra reached Oxenfurt. It was hard not to immediately think of the little cub, Geralt’s cub. Was she alive? Geralt would never forgive himself if something had happened to her after his refusal to be there for her. 

He had contemplated going there. To Cintra. For days, when he’d heard. But what was he, a mere bard, to do? Sure, he enjoyed high status among nobility and scholars alike. He was comfortable. The people had heard his call and tossed a coin-- and then a lot more. He mostly played to chase the thrill of singing on the road, like he used to with Geralt. To try and feel like he had with the Witcher. He didn’t need the money. He’d inherited the Lettenhove estate and he’d left it standing empty for years, paying for a small staff of young people who would have otherwise become lost -- upkeep only.

But in war all that didn’t matter. He didn’t have a leading position, no seat at the table, no army, no power. He only had his voice, his precious, elven lute, nice clothes and little potions that supposedly kept his aging at bay. At least that’s what a dodgy alchemist had told him, when he’d sold them to the drunk bard. There was a bet that led to this purchase, but that story didn’t paint Jaskier in the nicest of lights so he preferred to ignore that night. (He now very much doubted the effect they had as he was spotting the occasional gray hair before ripping it out. He felt silly for even taking them now. What's the use of youth? He didn’t possess magic or mutated strength to preserve. He kept telling himself he couldn’t help. But he digressed.)

He heard Benji jog up to him. 

“You just pass me in the streets now? Is an academic too good for me, suddenly?”

“I’m tired, Benji, show an old man some mercy.”

“Please, don’t try that old man act. Not only do you not look the part, you dramatic arse, we both know those years with the witcher and these big blue eyes that make people underestimate you have made you more dangerous with a dagger than a viper.” 

He lifted and his eyebrows at the man. “Didn’t know vipers were good with daggers.”

“You know I have no ‘academic speech’. You know what I mean.” 

He smiled at the inside joke between him and the man but it must not have been very convincing. 

“What’s got you in a mood? Thinking too much again? Yous academics…” 

He just shrugged, glad that Benji was keeping his pace without complaint. 

“Speaking of academics. Redhead dean said to tell you to go see her tonight. Is there something going on there?”

“What, Shani and me? Never. She’s a good ten years younger than I am, I knew her when she was 12 years old. Don’t insult me.” 

Now it was Benji’s turn to shrug. He remained silent for the rest of the way to the academy. Benji was also about ten years younger than Jaskier, though he called him a liar whenever that topic came up. 

At the gates Benji asked him if he wanted to play some rounds later in his chambers. Many nights they’d spent drunk in there, once ending in a black eye. Story for another time.

“I have to see about that business with Shani first. I’ll pop by if I can, given you promise not to cheat this time around,” he threw over his shoulder, already heading for the department of medicine. 

“I never cheat! You educated ones just don’t like those who aren’t to be better at anything than you!” Benji shouted after him, he himself headed for the dormitories. Jaskier had arranged for the stable hand to get a good warm room in there instead of out in the barns with the animals. They weren’t barbarians for gods’ sake, the man should feel comfortable. Ever since then (it hadn’t been that long ago), the man had been the most loyal friend and Jaskier was glad for it. 

The corridors leading to Shani’s office were lit in soft lantern light and empty except for the occasional student clutching books, quills and paper, running about like headless chickens who had forgotten the time and almost spent the night in the library. 

Finally at the office, he knocked. 

“Enter,” came Shani’s voice. 

Jaskier had been in here many times -- often for bad talking the pupils studying to become healers to his own students. How Shani always got wind of that, was beyond him, but it was his life’s mission to eventually figure that out. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz! Wonderful of you to finally show up. I sent that boy after you hours ago.” 

Ha. 

“I’m quite sure the ‘boy’ has some years on you Shanshan.”

She did strike an intimidating figure then, eyes narrowed at him from behind her giant desk. 

“I’ve asked you to refrain from referring to me in this manner, Julian. Don’t you see how you undermine my position as the youngest and first female dean of the medical wing of this university like this?” 

“Only once you stop calling me Julian. And maybe stop referring to yourself as 'the first female dean of the medical wing' all the time.” 

She sighed. “It is your name, dear. The one your parents gave you.”

“Exactly. Yuck.”, he sat in the chair placed in front of her desk for meetings and kicked his feet up on her pretentious giant desk. 

“Fine! Take your feet off the desk, _Jaskier_ ,” she pushed them off herself though. “And please don’t turn this into infantile bickering. You asked me to keep an eye on the conflict south of here, did you not?”

He perked up, sat straighter in his chair, all childishness forgotten. He nodded, too nervous to speak. 

“Four days ago they reached Sodden Hill. Gruesome battle, enormous casualties on both sides.”

“Shani, get to the point.”

“There are rumors that Yennefer of Vengeberg gave her life to save the Northern Kingdoms, Jaskier.”

No, it couldn’t be. Not Yen, not like this. Was Geralt there? Four days ago, Shani had said. Could the cloaked figure really have been Geralt? Had he been so close? 

“Geralt,” he croaked, mouth dry, “Geralt of Rivia. Any word on him?” He couldn’t stop his mind from running wild, imagining Geralt clutching Yen in his arms and saying goodbye to her yet again and this time it was final. If Geralt truly had lost his child of surprise, the love of his life -- who was he now?

Shani shook her head, expression sullen. 

What was he to do now? Hold lectures while Geralt undoubtedly fell apart? Maybe he even perished in this war himself? If Yen had died to defend the North the Witcher code and all his remaining brothers would not stop Geralt from finishing what she had started. 

He relaxed his hands (he hadn’t been aware that he had been clutching the armrests) as his mind arranged the new information he had received and formulated a plan. 

He looked up at Shani. She was leaning against the desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor. Waiting for him to collect himself, he realized. 

“I have to go.” 

“I knew you’d say that, you fool. It’s why I was dreading telling you this. But I thought you’d better hear it from me than from corrupted rumors on the streets or gods forbid once the Nilfgaardians reach us here.”

“They won’t. Not anytime soon.”

“Maybe not. But Temeria might just fall, Jaskier.” 

She pushed off the desk. 

“I won’t try to stop you. You know the risks. I’ll handle your senile dean if you leave tonight. On one condition.”

“Thank you, just name it.”

“Convince Geralt of Rivia to defend Oxenfurt’s library.”

It was a lot to ask. But if anyone could convince the man, it would be him. 

“I promise you, I’ll try my best. And if I somehow can’t make it happen, I’ll be here to defend it with you.” 

“Oh wow, it better work. We’re fucked, with you as defender of academia. ”

He laughed, tight and nervous and giddy the way one is when the situation is so sad and surreal that one cannot cope with it. 

“Thank you, Shani, truly.” 

“Don’t die. Now get out of my office.” 

Jaskier was glad to be kicked out so rudely, for it spared him time and Shani the pain of pleasantries and goodbyes. Were all his friends emotionally constipated? Well at least Benji and the Countess weren’t shy about emotion. 

He rushed through the corridors now, knocking on Benji’s door like a mad man. Benji opened up, clad in only a robe and wine in hand.

“Is this the night you were going to finally try and seduce me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. But judging by your wildly inappropriate hammering I’m guessing that’s not really an option anymore.” 

“Benji, at the risk of sounding harsh, it never was an option.”

The man sighed, running a hand through his red hair. “I suspected as much. Only women you’re after?”

He wasn’t going to answer that and hurt the man. 

“Well, a horse will do right now.” Benji grimaced at his words. “I need a horse for a journey. I also need you to take care of my lute--” 

“How? It's an instrument.” 

“You have to love her. Anyways, I’m trusting you with her. Also if anything happens to my pretty things I will string you up by your guts.”

“Nicely asking is an option, you know?” his friend chided.

Jaskier ignored him, using his fingers to count what he needed. “I’ll also have to pack rations and clothes… the blue doublet? Or more practical stuff, do I need to wake some shopkeeper?”

“I have a feeling you’re not talking to me anymore but just thinking out loud,” Benji said wistfully, walking into his rooms and placing the wine on a table. “But you can borrow some of my things. Hunting gear from my pops. Come in, I’ll help you pack as well.” 

“No questions asked?”

“Oh you just give me five minutes to come to terms with the fact that you just broke my heart and I’ll have plenty of questions.” And they said only bards were overly dramatic.

Benji walked into another room, undoubtedly to change. Jaskier should have felt guilty, but his mind was occupied with witchers, sorceresses and war instead. Benji would get over it. 

By sunrise, Jaskier had ridden off, leaving the university behind him. His saddle bags were equipped with rations, his boots stuffed with some coin and daggers and his mind set on finding his friends, hopefully against all reason, alive and well. He wasn’t going to save anyone, he wasn’t kidding anybody. But he would at least be there to witness it and try his damnedest to lend aid. And hopefully not break his hand punching Geralt a bit for not showing up in a year. 

He’d run with wolves long enough to know where he had to go. North-east to the blue mountains. Kaer Morhen was most likely where he’d find Geralt. He couldn’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of joining up with the man again, no matter the circumstances. Despite the long journey ahead of him, he smiled.


	2. Go the fuck to sleep, Jaskier.

Fear hung like mist in the air along his route. It obscured people’s vision, making them focus only on the fog, not what was really there. The people were in a frenzy in Temeria, panicking in Redania and anxious in Kaedwen. The Continent was quaking in its shoes and somehow that gave Jaskier motivation for courage. Somehow people’s fear demanded certain types of people to be courageous, to step up. People like Jaskier, usually in the habit of cowardice -- spurred to action because no one else was. 

He remembered being a child, sent away to be schooled at a temple school. He remembered sneaking around with some of the boys and stealing some high proof drink to do what kids his age did best -- make regrettable choices that ended in someone crying. They had just begun a conversation about why anyone would drink this concoction, when they heard sister’s soles swiftly thunder up the stairs. They had expected no search that night but sister coming up could only mean one. There was no place to hide the bottle -- none where a sister wouldn’t find it. The priestesses at that particular temple were cunning and merciless, for someone who supposedly served merciful gods. He remembered his comrade’s fear -- it tied them down but it liberated Jaskier. No one else was going to save them from the looming beatings. He brought his shin to a protruding nail no one had cared to fix and slashed his leg. It hurt like a bitch but i would explain the alcohol -- to disinfect. 

“Quick, pretend to tend to my wound!” he had hissed at the boys. They seemed to unfreeze and faked well enough for the sister to think they had just wanted to help. If they were jittery, it was the sight of blood. If Orin seemed green in the face, it was worry for Jaskier. If the youngest was crying -- well, he always was. That still meant no dinner for stealing, but no beatings for drinking either and that counted as a win. 

He now saw that same fear all around him, magnified tenfold. If the craftsman in Rinde overcharged Jaskier because he could, because in war you either paid or you died, he did so out of fear crops would be burned and he’d fail to provide for his family. If the streets of Murivel were full of whispers of Lawdbor perishing at Sodden, they were hushed by their superstitious and afraid loved ones. If bandits seemed to be everywhere -- nearly cost him his steed times and times over until he had to offer her up to save his own skin in the end -- it was because they feared starvation and decided to take fate in their own hands. Miraculously, Jaskier had almost reached Yspaden when he’d lost her. Benji would be furious, but he’d forgive Jaskier. Thank Melitele he had left his lute behind at the academy. 

And he had been able to hold his own until now. That was quite impressive if anyone asked him. Traveling alone was always risky but he still had it. Yes, he would admit that at first, he’d had to heavily rely on the Witcher’s protection whenever he found himself in a pinch. But that had been at the tender age of eighteen and back then he had only just left the defense his viscount title offered. But one didn’t run with a wolf for long if one didn’t learn to adapt. 

On foot, Jaskier had composed an entire song by the time he’d reached Yspaden, a song full of cursed bandits who could go choke on his boot. Jaskier hated traveling alone this time around, not solely because of the war tension poisoning the lands. He was also left alone with his thoughts and these damned pesky things made him think about Geralt more often than not. And how cruel was it to feel the anticipation of uniting with someone one hoped one still knew?

If Geralt had truly lost what the bard prayed he hadn’t, the White Wolf would never be the same. All the work that had gone into coaxing him out of his defenses and making him let people in, would have been for naught. 

It was quite selfish, Jaskier realized, to focus on that aspect of his friend’s potential loss. 

“Hello there young lass!” he called out to an old lady working the fields outside of town, “How are you on this fine day?”

She righted herself from where she had been plucking herbs, rather rudely gesturing for him to speak. 

“Okay, sure. Was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the nearest inn?”

She laughed. It sounded startled out of her. 

“This seem like a town people visit to you? No inn.” Jaskier let his gaze sweep over the huts, the bare fields, the kids in rags. No dogs. His eyes focused on a little girl using a stick to draw in the dirt. Back in Oxenfurt the kids had warm garments and dolls. 

“Tis barely a village, boy. We have a house the whores stay in. If you pay for one you can probably stay in her bed roll, never any customers.”

He swiftly returned his attention to the old woman. Why did the establishment still exist then? There had to be customers. “Witch the exception of Witchers?”

She looked at him oddly.

“Have they come this year?” he asked a tad too eagerly.

If they hadn’t, maybe they would soon and he could join them. Otherwise it would take him days to find his way to Kaer Morhen, what with maps being rudimentary at best.

She eyed him suspiciously. “Why’d you want to know that?”

The old woman expected an answer from him and he contemplated the best lie to tell. Jaskier couldn’t decide if that was animosity or protectiveness in her eyes and depending on her relationship to the Witchers she’d help or refuse. Jaskier decided to give her an almost truth.

“I have some business with them. Weird question but did they, perhaps, have a young girl with them when they came? Or a woman-- most likely dressed in black and very intimidating.”

This woman was probably incredible at cards, Jaskier thought as he studied her visage for some hint of the emotion she had displayed just moments ago. 

“I know nothing. Didn’t see nothing.” 

Jaskier thanked her and though he was sure she knew something she wasn’t telling him, he knew he wouldn't get anywhere with her, not without Geralt’s Axii. He resolved to ask around at the brothel instead. 

When Jaskier passed the little girl he had seen playing in rags, he dropped his last money -- he wouldn’t need it anymore and she could clearly use it. As expected, she hurriedly picked up the coins , undoubtedly not believing this stranger’s clumsiness. Good for her, taking what no one else was willing to give freely. 

Jaskier had thought he’d be more and more relieved the closer he got to his goal but it was quite the opposite. He didn’t know what he would find once he got there. Would Geralt even be present or would he just have to settle for being murdered by Witchers who thought him an invader? Would he find Geralt a husk of the man he once was, mourning someone who could have been a daughter and someone who could have been his love? Maybe Geralt would even murder him himself, sick of the bard interfering. What a way to go! What a story to tell! But he only trusted himself to write songs about that tragedy. Gods forbid Valdo was commissioned with it, ugh. 

Jaskier found the establishment the old woman had mentioned easily enough, he just looked for the building the men made the biggest birch around under the scrutinizing gaze of their mothers and wives. It was hilarious. 

His objective was to see if the people there were more forthcoming and to figure out the right path to be taking up. What dangers to anticipate. Were there monsters making the path unsafe? He could deal with untrained farmers turned bandits, but a forktail would end him. On one hand, the witchers would probably have cleaned the roads, right? Yeah, they had to. On the other, why not let nature’s beasts be a defense to your old and historically very vulnerable fort? Fuck.

Jaskier entered the wood house, immediately assaulted by the smell of very potent perfume. 

The owner immediately jumped from the table she had been lunging at, extending a warm and rather pushy welcome. “Sir, what can I do for you? Can I introduce some of our girls to you? Or maybe Dieter?"

Dieter, huh? He smiled at her. “Thank you, but I have to decline. I’m looking for information on the witchers who frequent your establishment actually. I love the-” he looked around, taking in the simple yet elegant decor, “I was about to lie but actually, I really adore the interior design. Your work?”

“Mel, one of my women. Listen boy, let me give you some advice, you seem like a good lad. You don’t ask about our witchers here.” 

Our? Interesting. 

“We owe them a debt and if you’re planning anything--”

“Oh, no I would never. I am on an honorable quest of friendship, you see.”

There was obvious disdain in her gaze but she sighed, shaking her head. 

“If you say so. But if you asked anyone else about this you best leave quickly or you may die before you even ascend the mountain. Stack up on preserved meats and fruit, boy, the witchers always seem to buy those off of Gunder at the market.” A generous term for what was in truth three carts. “ Last ya long for the path.” 

“Why should I be quick to leave--”

The door flew open and the lady from the fields entered. “There he is!” she pointed at him. 

Three big people strode in after her. Men and women, holding fucking pitchforks. They did not seem friendly. Oh, fuck. 

“Too late,” the madam of the brothel very aptly said under her breath. 

“I noticed, thanks”, he whispered back, perhaps more aggressively than she deserved. Couldn't she have warned him first?

“I don’t suppose you’re here for Dieter?” Jaskier asked. They stepped closer. 

“Okay, not here for fun. Listen, I don’t know what you think I’m here to do, but trust me I do not wish to make trouble or disrupt the peace. Step aside and I’ll be on my way. No need for anyone to be pitchforked today.” 

“Let you go? Up the mountains? Forget it, boy,” one of the big men said. 

What were his options? His satchel hung over his shoulders containing some nuts and berries, dried meats and barely any coin. Not enough to appease anyone. He was dimly aware of the stairs behind him. Maybe Dieter would hide him. Jaskier had seen some windows -- maybe he’d be able to jump out of one and run? Too high a risk of hurting his leg, but better than dying due to ‘big fork’. The songs would be hilarious though. He imagined Geralt never being able to use a fork again.

Or maybe, if he got close enough, his daggers would be of more benefit to him than their big tools to them. These people were just trying to protect their protectors though, he couldn’t hurt them, could he? These were not bandits, no pirates, these were good men and women trying to do what was right. But they kept stepping closer. Could he justify his life was worth more than theirs? What could he possibly contribute that they couldn’t? 

“Please, I don’t seek quarrel. I’m only here to find Geralt of Rivia. I’m-- I’m his bard, you see? Toss a coin to your witcher and all that. He hates me a bit for it.”

“And I’m the Countess de Stael,” a woman said. 

“I actually had a love affair with her,” he offered, “She could lift me straight off my feet. Besides the point, when will I learn to fucking shut my mouth when my life’s in mortal danger?”

Not-Stael and the two men exchanged looks. The old, now evil in is mind, lady at the door screeched “What are you waiting for? Want trouble with Vesemir--”

“Vesemir! Geralt’s--” father, “mentor! Surely he didn’t ask you to kill poor, innocent strangers?” If they got talking he could dash for the stairs, legs be fucked. Luck had kept him alive so far, she wouldn’t fail him now.

"Not kill, make talk until he comes down to deal with them," she smiled. Somehow Jaskier felt that was worse.

“But only those dumb enough to ask about us,” came a voice from behind him. Jaskier looked back, not daring to turn and risk being impaled from behind. A man slowly descended the stairs. The others stepped back, let him take the lead. He was tall and broad shouldered. Most importantly, he was yellow-eyed. Scars ran down his face and he was dressed in colorful armor, the wolf medallion hanging on his chest. “I think I’ve heard enough, thank you Isolde, I can handle it from here.” 

Jaskier knew him because he knew Geralt. “You’re Eskel.” 

The man raised his brows, “And you’re lucky I was in town or you’d be dead. Who are you?”

“He said he was a bard, Sir Witcher,” one of the men answered before Jaskier could. 

“I’m not just any bard and I take offense to that, Mister overcompensating Pitchfork.” He stepped towards the man and jabbed at his chest “I’m THE bard, Geralt’s bard, the one who made sure you lot weren’t shitting yourselves anytime a Witcher showed up in your proximity, so you’re welcome. And,” he turned towards Eskel, “You’re welcome for all the extra work.” 

The man scoffed. “Geralt told me about how you like to run your mouth and I’m tempted to say it’s unmistakably you. What would you say?” he asked over his shoulder. 

Jaskier realized that behind Eskel, up on the stairs there stood a girl, hiding behind one of the ladies of the house. 

Right there in a dirty brothel with nice interior design and angry farmers in a town at the foot of the blue mountains stood the heir to Cintra. The sole survivor of the royal family. She was alive and well. She had those unmistakable high cheekbones, the striking hair-color of her mother and he remembered her at three years when he visited. She had thrown up on his favorite outfit. He remembered her when he checked up on her four years later. She had been seven and she had learned how to make flower crowns from him. He remembered seeing her at eleven and playing at the ball for her birthday. Back then he had checked up on her because Geralt was too stubborn to do so himself. He’d always mention her to Geralt after his visits. Said she was well, what she seemed to like now. Lizards, horses, cards. Geralt would hum or grunt, never more. But he knew the man always appreciated it. 

“Cirilla.”

She looked surprised. And then there was recognition. 

“It’s him!” Ciri confirmed excitedly. 

“Well then, forgive me, Jaskier,” Eskel said as he swiftly he reached out, touching Jaskier’s head and making everything go dark. 

***

There was a jostle and he felt searing pain in his skull. It felt hot, too hot. His vision was blurred and the assault on his senses was too much to handle. He didn't even attempt to open his eyes again, instinctively aware that this would only worsen his situation. Instead, Jaskier tried to figure out where he was, what was going on. 

He was lying somewhere and it wasn’t comfortable. His arms were twisted behind his back, numb as he seemed to have been lying on them for quite some time. They were tied, he realized. The surface he was on also wasn’t even, there were lumps of something underneath him, objects digging into his side. There was a constant jostle, making him realize he was being moved. Now, he opened his eyes in panic. 

He was, indeed, on a cart, tossed on top of what must’ve been cargo of some sort, like he was just another sack of potatoes. The cart was strapped onto a horse. Roach? No, it wasn’t he realized, there were splotches of color the mare didn’t possess. If Roach had been there, he would’ve been a bit less worried, but as it was? The dagger in his left boot was still there, he felt it. He also felt that his legs were tied as well. They were moving over cobblestone. Of the road? Some city? Kaer Morhen, he realized. 

Things were becoming less foggy in his head and he concentrated on Ciri’s voice, hearing her talk. 

“...should have waited,” the girl was saying, as she jumped off the cart.

“I can't be sure, princess, you could be wrong.”

The cart maneuvered closer to the big doorway of the fort. 

“You tested him with silver. He really is Geralt’s bard. And you will get in trouble if you hurt him,” Ciri said, stepping towards Jaskier. Their eyes met. He was lying on his back, seeing her upside down.  
“Hurt him more you mean,” Jaskier croaked, “Gosh my head is hammering.”

Eskel rounded the cart into his field of view. “Not sure. Might cut off a finger or two to see if they turn,” Eskel said, face blank. 

Jaskier tensed. He couldn’t grab the dagger with his hands tied like this and there wasn’t any way to loosen the rope that was painfully cutting into his wrists. Even if all these restraints weren't an issue, he could never best a witcher. But the threat to his fingers was immediate and he still needed those, thank you very much. 

“He needs his fingers for music,” Ciri argued on his behalf. 

“Exactly, listen to her big guy,” he said. And then “Hello, by the way Ciri.”

She waved, giving him an apologetic albeit reluctant smile. “Hi.”

“Sorry for the ambush in the village, Jaskier” The man gestured in the direction the place must have laid. What a bunch of lunatics Geralt surrounded himself with. 

“Can never be too careful. You understand,” he said. 

Jaskier nodded, feeling the world spin and regretting the action. Geralt had knocked him out with a sign once before, when he had been hurt and he had been annoyed by his incessant screaming. It had been a mercy. And much preferred to non-magical knock-outs, those left traces. These side-effects on the other hand would wear off soon.

“Good. Geralt will be able to confirm soon so make yourself comfortable on the cart until he arrives.” 

“Oh yeah, I’m super comfortable upside down on a cart laden with sharp, jabby objects digging into my sides and magic hurting my head.” 

“Sarcasm. Means you'll live.” Eskel said. The nerve.

“Wait, he could have died?” Ciri quipped, and Eskel chuckled. At least Jaskier thought so, his face didn't give much away. Maybe he just choked. Jaskier wanted to punch two witchers now.

The witcher pulled some bags out from underneath him, until there were only pelts and softer things left beneath him. It was actually comfortable now, not that Jaskier would admit that. Cirilla seemed rather excited for something. She reached out to grab a yellow silk bag from Eskel’s hands, seemingly full of something heavy. Then she said her goodbyes and ran off, into the castle. Her attention had shifted from poor pitiful Jaskier to a sack of something in no time.

“Cirilla come back and help me unload!” Eskel shouted after her. Jaskier couldn’t help but hope she didn’t, that Eskel would unload it all by himself. He was, maybe, a bit of a petty person. 

“What’s got her so excited?” he asked. 

Eskel eyed him with distrust but then shrugged. “No harm in telling you this I guess. She finally got something more practical to wear. Had it tailored weeks ago.”

“No way, like, gear? Is she going to look like a mini version of Geralt?” Just the thought made him melt. 

Eskel huffed an amused laugh. “Just don’t let Geralt hear that comparison.” 

Cirilla didn’t come back and Eskel had to make multiple trips. It was awkward to watch him come and go from that particular angle.

“Okay, I’m done. Geralt won’t be long, Jaskier, hang in there.” 

Resigned, he watched Eskel leave.

Jaskier studied the sky -- already a dance of deep red and orange and absolutely breathtaking up here. He watched these colors drain and be replaced by a starry night sky within the hour. He studied his surroundings and couldn’t help but compare his home to Geralt’s. 

If one thought of Oxenfurt, one thought of bustling life and warm toned infrastructure. One thought of the clear blue waters surrounding it. One thought of safety as the only predators close by were birds, hunting the water-life. 

Kaer Morhen, on the other hand, was surrounded by green wildlife and it itself - the large looming stone structure leaning against a mountain - looked not cold and uninviting, but ancient and of nature itself. Jaskier couldn’t decide if the substantial damage to the western wing took from or added to that relationship. It was not unlike Geralt himself. A bit hurt but still in tune with both his sides - witcher and human.

Before long, Jaskier nodded off. His arms were numb, his headache only slowly subsiding, his mouth dry and the night cold, yet he managed to sleep. He didn’t know how long he remained in his land of dreams, before he felt cold metal against his legs. 

He heard a soothing shush. “I’m just cutting your bindings, Jas.”

“Geralt?” he asked groggily, still half asleep. 

An answering hum came and then Jaskier was suddenly hoisted up, an arm behind his shoulders and one under his knees. Suffice it to say that woke him right up. 

“Fuck, Geralt, warn a man,” he quickly snaked his arms around the witcher's neck. Geralt shouldered open the door to the keep and into the warm they went, up some stairs. Finally. 

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“And miss this? No way.” He eyed Geralt, who was resolutely not looking at him but still rolled his eyes. He looked… well, actually. Not like he had lost the love of his life just two weeks ago and had fallen back into a bout of insomnia and self-loathing because of it. He seemed rested and calm, content. Maybe the shadows of night were playing a trick on Jaskier’s eyes?

“I missed you,” he said before he could stop himself. At least he successfully fought the urge to bury his face in Geralt’s neck. Now Geralt finally looked at him, face unreadable. He didn’t respond, he just nudged another door open and carried Jaskier over to the bed, placing him down gently. As Jaskier rid himself of his satchel and his boots, he looked around the large room, nicely furnished and cozy. 

He looked at the weapon’s stand in the corner, where Geralt placed his swords. Watched the man take off his armor’s chest and shoulder plates, remaining in his dress shirt.

“What happened, Geralt?”

Geralt walked back over and pulled a pelt over him. “Sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”

“But this is your bed,” he smelled Geralt’s scent on the pelts and pillows and it felt like coming home. 

“It’s fine,” Geralt insisted as he sat in an armchair by the fire, “Sleep.” 

This time Jaskier listened, assured that Geralt was right there.


	3. Talk it out, boys.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys work through some stuff and it's mostly fluffy filler before I make them suffer

“I leave you for two days. Two days, Eskel. And you get the genius idea to go parade her through town? Are you a mad man?” Jaskier heard Geralt snap as he descended the stairs. Last time he’d seen the Witcher, he had been angry as well. Angry and grumpy were different on him. 'Angry' seemed to only happen when Geralt was scared. This time, scared for his child of surprise.

“And then you bring _him_ back here -- I know you can hear me Jas -- and leave him out for how many hours?” 

“Three,” Ciri quipped as Jaskier pushed the door open and strutted in. 

“Snitch,” Eskel muttered.

“Three hours, Eskel. He's human! I’ve talked to you about this, he could have caught his death out there.”

“I’m not fragile,” Jaskier said as he walked towards the large table Ciri, Geralt and Eskel were seated at. Geralt had carried him through here the previous day, Jaskier realized, but he had been too far gone to realize. 

His friend now shot him a glare that said ‘don’t make me get up and prove you wrong’ and Jaskier raised his hands in surrender, deciding to let Geralt do his thing and look for some more of the sausages he saw Ciri chomping down on. Maybe there were some left in the pan at the stove. 

Eskel remained calm and collected in the face of Geralt’s disdain, something Jaskier had to respect.

“Geralt, do I need to educate you on feminine issues or will you just accept that the girl needed me to give her some coin and let her buy what she needed unattended? Besides, Mel from the brothel helped her.” 

Jaskier looked over at Cirilla, who was blushing furiously. Geralt finally shut his mouth, clearly aware he had overstepped by bringing this up now and in front of the girl. He seemed truly puzzled and exasperated. Jaskier didn’t blame him, the Witcher was new to fatherhood, after all. And Yen was… whatever? Wherever? 

“Ha!” he exclaimed when he found the sausages in a pot on the countertop. It was one of the pots people lowered into the ground to keep the meat fresh for longer, or even cool it. They were kind of cold-ish right then as well, but fuck if he cared at this point. 

“Where are your plates, Gerbear?” he asked loudly, over his shoulder, making Eskel choke on his food and Cirilla’s eyes shimmer with mirthful glee. The best way to fix an embarrassing situation was to do or say something even more outrageous. 

“I’ll absolutely start using that!”, Cirilla gushed.

“Do I need to remind you that I’m responsible for your training hours?” Geralt threatened her, judging by her grin, to no avail. 

“I’ll come help you,” Geralt said to Jaskier, “Before you do more than just destroy any and all respect I receive in this place.” 

The table was a good distance off from the stove and the countertops were littered with unwashed dishes. Out of earshot for a non-human, if Jaskier kept his voice low when he asked about Yen. That was if he could get his face to stop smiling before he broached the subject.

“Were you about to eat these raw?” the witcher asked him. Jaskier shrugged, actually having thought they had just gone cold, but definitely not about to admit that embarrassing fact. Benji had only just let himself be convinced to teach Jaskier cooking, when he’d had to leave, so really, this kept happening because of the circumstances. “I’m starving.” 

“Drama. Good to see some things never change,” Geralt _smiled_ and Jaskier’s chest was threatening to burst with barely contained emotion. 

“I have never been dramatic a day in my life,” Jaskier said, touching his chest dramatically. The bard turned around and pushed himself up on the countertop, to watch as Geralt cracked an egg for him, cooking the sausages as well. A man entered the kitchens -- receding hairline and yellow eyes. Lambert, Jaskier assumed from what Geralt had told him about his brothers. Coen was short and broad, so this was not him. The man barely looked at Jaskier and did not seem surprised to find some stranger in his kitchen.

“That’s Lambert. He doesn’t like people,” Geralt explained. Ah, he had been right.

Jaskier watched the witcher sit beside Ciri, helping himself to some food from her plate. “Hey, you’ve already eaten!” Ciri protested. 

He wiped his hand on his armor, shrugging. “A word of wisdom: If you’re slow with food, others eat it.” 

Wow, the wisdom. Jaskier chuckled.

Ciri now gobbled her food down between her uncles, happily wiping her hands on her dress, like Lambert had done.

“Are Lambert’s manners rubbing off on her? I think you guys are ruining a perfectly good princess for a finer company,” Jaskier whispered to Geralt.

“I can hear you, you know, pretty boy?” Lambert said, disdainfully.

“Okay, let’s nip this in the bud,” Geralt intervened, sensing Jaskier’s oncoming word vomit. 

“Jaskier is here now and we have to deal with it. Go make yourselves useful. Ciri, you are done, aren't you?” The girl nodded. “Well then, out! Don’t forget your water skin.”

Jaskier was in awe. Geralt had evolved into a proper fussy father-figure, complete with quips and a no-nonsense attitude. All qualities he’d had before, heightened now. He was so damn transparent like this, brows furrowed, pretending to be stern and angry when in reality he was a fruit tart with a gooey center for Ciri. _Ciri, you are done, aren't you?_

The three of them left, Ciri quickly and eager to learn, Eskel politely exiting behind her and Lambert frowning at Jaskier all the while. 

“Wow, he’s a ray of sunshine, isn’t he, that Lambert?” Jaskier asked.

“Maybe you just antagonize people and assume they’ll like you regardless.” 

He had a point. Geralt moved his food into a plate and carried it towards the table. It smelled heavenly, so Jaskier couldn’t get off the counter and onto the bench quick enough. 

“Gerbear, I don’t know what you mean! That’s just called flirting.” Geralt sat opposite him and glared menacingly, but Jas knew he was secretly, very,very, very deep down, amused. “Oh, speaking of antagonizing people though-- ‘He’s here now and we have to deal with it?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jaskier happily hummed as he tasted the well seasoned sausage, and wow, he’d always hoped this scenario would play out differently.

“I mean, I don’t want you here.” 

Very differently.

It stung and Jaskier’s food was an adequate distraction, giving him time to collect his thoughts. He ate and tried to work through those words, while Geralt kept looking at him like he was trying to penetrate his head and read his mind to finally understand him. As though he wasn’t the one who had just broken someone’s heart. Again. Casually and without reason. 

“Jaskier, why are you here?” Geralt finally broke their silence.

Jaskier laughed. “What a question, Geralt. You know the answer. It’s because I’m always here. It’s where I’m supposed to be.”

“Not, it’s not. And we both know it.”

Jaskier sighed. Only half his food was gone, but so was his appetite. He pushed his plate away. 

“Are you sure you want to have this talk now? Before we’ve even talked about you almost losing Cirilla? What happened to Yen? Yes I know about Yennefer, don’t look so surprised. Why do you think I’m here, I thought you’d…”

The rest hung between them, unspoken. Jaskier remained silent for a minute before he cleared his throat and spoke again.

“I just needed to see you Geralt, I just needed to make sure you were okay. Is that so horrible? And yeah and maybe it has something to do with war coming and books burning and cults forming as well and maybe I feel best at your side would that also be so wrong? Do you truly reject my friendship still? Is that why you cut me out for a year?”

He knew he looked flushed with anger. He hoped he didn’t look as foolish as he felt. 

“You don’t understand.” 

“Yes I do, but when will you get it in your thick skull that you’re not going to get anywhere like this? I’m here to stand by your side in this, do not turn an old friend away as if you hold no regard for him. If this is about the mountain -- I forgave you as soon as the words had left your lips.”

“The mountain. I’m sorry for what I said there, Jaskier, but I thought it had to be said to keep you out of the mess that is... _me_.”

“Don't take me for a fool Geralt -- you are just trying to spare your own self.” 

Geralt looked as if struck. Eyes of melted gold burned with fire, with words not said, all the words Geralt denied him. He feared he had shattered every hope of sneaking past Geralt’s defenses unnoticed once more, as he had done many years ago to see himself a friend to the White Wolf. 

“Say something. I'm here in your kitchen, missing my friend while he yet remains among the living. That’s just unfair Geralt. You just left me-- and Roach. Is she still at the foot of that mountain? I only paid a month’s worth of upkeep for her--”

“I came back for Roach.” 

“Oh wonderful, he came back for the horse!”

Geralt face constricted, his mouth a taut line. His body was leaning away from, not towards Jaskier. His whole demeanor, his body language screamed that he wanted to leave, didn’t want to talk about this, but he remained.

“I came to my senses after I...you- after the mountain. Realized what I was doing, rejecting destiny’s will just like Yen was by pushing me away. How could I expect her to not refuse me when I had abandoned my own child surprise? Never even met her? So I rode for Cintra. Not for Yen, for Ciri and for me.”

“Fuck, Geralt.”

“Might as well have, Jas. Calanthe locked me up for a good year. You were never far from mind, if that means anything.”

“I’m so sorry about that, Ger, I had no idea.” He wanted to reach out to his friend, comfort him, but he knew that would break the moment of openness between them, make the witcher withdraw. This was not one of the moments he needed comforting touch. 

“You couldn’t have known. I’d foolishly sent you off,” Geralt’s smile was all wrong, self-deprecating. “Then I came for you when I found Ciri after Sodden. Or rather she found me. Jas, I think destiny might be owed some credit. We were so close to Oxenfurt, I came and I checked on you. I left again because I am a responsible person with half a brain who sees that you're better off away from me.”

Jaskier, before brimming with pent up energy and adrenaline, bouncing his leg that he had thrown over his knee, stilled. “So it was you.” Jaskier felt the giggles bubble out of his chest. His friend eyed him like it had finally happened, like he had broken the bard.

“Shite, Geralt, you are such a hypocrite. You say big things about not evading destiny anymore when you push me away again and again.”

“Jaskier, Yen was fate. Ciri is fate. But you are not.” 

Geralt might as well have driven a dagger into Jaksier’s heart. Geralt’s brow furrowed, like he didn’t understand the hurt he saw in Jaskier’s face, before his eyebrows shot up and his eyes went comically wide.

“I just said that all wrong. I meant to say that you are the only thing in my damn life that is not destiny’s doing, Jas, you are the only one who could escape without her giving a fuck and for some unfathomable reason you won’t leave.” 

Oh. Jas felt his face glow hot with the heat of all his conflicting emotions.

“Not as unfathomable as you think, Geralt. Sometimes people just chose you out of their own free will, because you are worth it,” Geralt clearly expected more anger and looked surprised at the gentleness Jaskier was projecting at him instead. 

“I can’t tell what you’re feeling,” Geralt admitted. 

“I’m furious, actually, but I understand you, Geralt, dare I say better than anyone except maybe Yennefer ever has. Just… let me in, like old times. ”

Geralt sighed. “You know I want you here. It’s just… well, I explained. Anyways, with winter, snow and war soon on our doorstep, it is not like making you leave would be a better option.”

“You’re stuck with me,” Jaskier smiled, a miserable little thing. 

Geralt looked away. “The Nilfgaardians just have to catch onto the fact that Ciri is my child of surprise and they’ll be at our doorstep. I'm surprised they're not here yet. She told me they sent people after her. For some reason the want her, Jas, Are you really putting yourself there, between them and her? You could be safe in Oxenfurt, don't you see how that would mean I only have to protect one person?”

“Don’t. Just stop already. I’m not a burden. I killed six bandits on my way here alone, Geralt. I've been a royal spy, I've stolen government secrets and gotten away with it. You underestimate me. It's like you still look at me and see the foolish eighteen-year-old with bread in his pants who called himself a man prematurely and got chased by angry husbands!”

Geralt looked surprised, before becoming thoughtful. He was clearly considering Jaskier’s words, which only confirmed their truth for him. Somehow, this was what pained Jaskier most. Geralt still saw him as a child. 

“To be fair, you haven't aged,” Geralt eventually said, brows furrowed as though just now realizing it.

Jaskier laughed without humor. “You sound like Benji.”

“Well, whoever this Benji is, he’s clearly astute and correct,” Geralt said, crossing his arms.

Jaskier contemplated for a second. “I take a potion but I find gray hairs, so I must be aging.”

“There’s no way a potion did that. If magic like that existed for regular humans, do you think anyone would ever wrinkle? You're what, 40? You look half that.” 

“I suppose. Benji and my students come onto me, you know? There are children flirting with me, Geralt, it's unsettling. But this realization you’ve helped me to reach now also makes it unsettling when people my age flirt with me as well, doesn’t it? If I truly look as young as everyone claims? Thank you for ruining my sex life within the span of five minutes.” 

Geralt laughed. “Jaskier, come on. You were a child flirting with me once.”

No way. Jaskier openly gaped at that. “You caught onto that?”

The witcher hummed, eying Jaskier’s plate as though it had personally offended him that Jaskier hadn’t finished it. Maybe it had? 

“In that way you used to flirt with everyone capable of consent. Hell, probably tree stumps if trees could talk.”

So he didn’t know, not really.

“Thankfully, I’ve matured,” he mumbled. “But we digress, Geralt, there’s no time to wallow in the past. It’s as you said, I am here now and you have to deal with it.”

“Well, if you’re sure--”

“I am.”

Geralt smiled, eyes twinkling down at him when he stood. “Well, then it’s good to have you here old friend. ” 

Ugh, he was so perfect. Geralt held out a hand to shake and help him up, which Jas gladly took.

“Did you end up sleeping yesterday?”

The witcher looked away. “I’m fine.” 

Jaskier sighed and turned towards the door that led into the staircase. “Follow me”

“Where?” 

“To bed, come on.”

“You climbed out of bed barely an hour ago, Jas.” 

“I’ve been on the road, my friend. If it was you that night in Oxenfurt then you probably were on the road not so long ago too.”

Geralt followed Jaskier, scratching his neck awkwardly. “Actually, we popped by Aretuza. Teleported here by grace of Triss.”

“And they say it doesn’t pay to sleep around.”

Geralt elbowed him in the ribs for that, well deserved. He was just a bit cranky. Geralt didn’t want him there for his own protection, meaning he of course cared about him, but Jaskier felt like it meant the man felt he couldn’t truly rely on him either.

“You don’t mind sharing, do you?” Jaskier asked when they reached Geralt’s chamber (more of an entire story, but hey). 

“We passed by many empty rooms.”

“Exactly, empty and dusty, probably moth infested, rat ridden, bat--”

“Fine, stay, just shut up.”

He smiled to himself as Geralt kicked off his boots and simply fell into his bed. Jaskier decided to wash up first, using the water in the banister. Then he pulled a shirt out of his satchel -- it was a simple but large one -- no balloon sleeves, nothing to get caught somewhere in the wild. Perfect for hunting. One of Benji’s shirts, as Jaskier realized he had only the lilac doublet he was wearing and his friend’s clothes left -- the rest had been left behind in old Franny’s saddle bags. He hoped the bandits were treating Franny well. 

Having no other choice, Jaskier pulled the garment on and with Geralt’s face conveniently buried in his pillows, Jaskier also slipped on some of Benji’s breeches. 

He walked over to the bed, wondering how Geralt expected to share all sprawled out like that and about to ask, when Geralt turned towards him, pushing pillows and pelts off the bed and onto the thick carpet. 

“Sleep down there. I thought I smelled someone on you. It’s a lot stronger now,” Geralt murmured, face smashed against the mattress. It took Jaskier a second but then he understood. 

Of course witcher senses and all, Geralt could smell Benji on the clothes. “Oh come on, Benji doesn’t smell bad.”

Jaskier placed a knee on the bed gesturing for Geralt to scoot.

A disdainful look was directed at him, studying him top to bottom. “You’re not getting into my bed smelling like wet dog.” 

The bard laughed at the implication Benji smelled bad, but Geralt’s gaze remained unimpressed. “You can’t be serious.” 

“As a troll about rocks.”

This was ridiculous. “Is this some sort of territorial alpha wolf bullshit I’m unaware of? You know your bed will smell like someone else -- me -- anyways, right?”

Geralt lifted his eyebrows. “You’re welcome to any other room-”

“Fucking _fine_ ,” Jaskier fisted his shirt over his head and scurried out of his pants right there. He grinned down at Geralt’s expression. The fucker thought dealing with a djinn was hard, ha. 

He was only in his underwear now and straight up threw himself half over Geralt, undoubtedly making the witcher smell like bard. 

“Jaskier, _move your arse off my face_.” It was barely audible. 

“Firstly, you wish you had a face-full of my pert butt, secondly, you were practically begging me to throw myself on top of you, refusing to scoot like that. Serves you right, you big--”

Geralt took him by the shoulders and hauled him to the side, throwing a pillow in his face. 

“You’re frustrating.” It was said with love. 

And that was the end of that. Jaskier really tried to drift off, failing and instead trying to memorize Geralt’s peaceful sleeping expression thoroughly by not-at-all-creepy staring at the man in disbelief that he was there again, by his side. Disbelief that it had been so easy to fall back into the same routine of banter and affectionate frustration, an odd balance they had established over years of joint travel. Jaskier pinched himself, like he used to as a kid, just to make sure the soothing warmth at his side was not a result of overindulgence with Benji. 

Finally, Jaskier grew antsy and impatient. The sun was still high up in the sky if the rays the fluttering drapes allowed in and Jaskier could only swoon so much over Geralt and the way he reached around the bard’s waist to hug him at some point, without giving in to the impulse to thread his fingers through the larger man’s hair. And he would not allow himself to, because if he did, what was to stop him from reaching out in waking moments too? It’d all be too close to the surface. As much as he enjoyed the weight and warmth of Geralt’s arm around him, cocooned there, the skin to skin contact was proving too much and he needed to get up and out.

Geralt, of course, woke when Jaskier shifted to slip from the bed. His sleep was disturbed by something as simple as a shift in someone’s heartbeat or his own need to get more comfortable (but somehow he could sleep through the sounds of the wild -- selective and odd, much?) -- the witcher didn’t just turn in his sleep. Every movement was conscious, which made Jaskier’s heart squeeze in adoration because it meant every time they awoke tangled and comfortable it was _on purpose_. It made Jaskier the emotional equivalent of horny. 

“Go to sleep.”

Geralt hummed and turned away to slumber on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked for the original, which I'll happily provide at some point after I'm done with this one!


	4. Meeting daddy, Jaskier?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets a tour of the keep and meets our favorite elusive father figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Cirilla I write is a mix between the Netflix!Ciri and Game!Ciri - a combination of excitable and traumatized kid but still a 14 y/o child that gets to feel safe now.

Jaskier fished Benji’s clothes from around the bed and got dressed, slipping on his shoes and swiftly exiting the room. He practically bounced down the stairs, trying to remember the route to the kitchens and hoping his plate had not been eaten or its contents tossed. He really regretted not finishing it now, with his stomach angrily punishing him for it. 

The fort was so vast, he took a couple of wrong turns and landed in the inner courtyard. He decided to round the keep and enter from the main gate, sure he remembered the kitchens to be around there somewhere. As soon as he re-entered, he heard voices, which he followed to, jackpot, the kitchen.

Inside the dimly lit, vast space, crates and old wood as well as tools lined the walls. Jaskier was relatively sure this constituted a fire hazard, but then again, the entire keep seemed to be close to being reduced to a deathtrap.

Ciri stood in front of the only table in the room, animatedly talking to Eskel and Lambert. The two had clearly deemed Geralt’s absence an appropriate excuse for day drinking in front of Ciri. 

“Getting started early, boys?” Jaskier asked, voice dripping in judgement.

“We have to, with training done and Geralt for once slacking on his little educational excursions with Ciri here, entertaining the devil’s spawn has to be made bearable somehow,” Lambert said, promptly elbowed by Eskel and kicked in the shin by Ciri. 

“It’s weak stuff,” Eskel explained. “Doesn’t even register with our metabolism.” Jaskier nodded in acknowledgement, feeling relieved that they weren’t completely irresponsible. 

“Never mind them, how does it look?” Cirilla asked, now turning towards Jaskier and twirling to show off her attire as a young girl might show off a new dress.

Instead of flowery light material, however, Ciri brandished heavy leather shoulder pads, extending down the front in a breast plate with straps and metals worked into the fabric and leather brandishing the sides. She was obviously not wearing an undershirt, which meant that the material would eventually chafe her skin badly. Had nobody helped or explained? One look at Lambert and Eskel told him they had similar thoughts but wouldn’t say anything about that either. What sort of misplaced modesty was that?

“Looks wonderful, Ciri,” Eskel stated, giving her an encouraging smile. 

Lambert laughed. “Don’t insult her, we all see what you’re wearing, Eskel. She was obviously asking those of us who have any fashion sense at all.” 

“Actually, I was only asking Jaskier,” Ciri amended, shooting Lambert a smug grin. He saw affection there, in Lambert's eyes, which he rolled. 

“I love your doublet, the one you were wearing before...well,” she told Jaskier. 

“Why, princess, do you mean before you failed to defend an old friend from magic bad touch?” he raised his eyebrows, only jesting and trying to project that with every fiber of his being so she didn’t misunderstand or feel bad. 

She giggled. 

“Thanks for the compliment on the doublet, I can only return it, you know how to pick colors. I try very hard and witchers just aren’t the type to acknowledge that.”

“Well I’m a witcher now and I do,” she grinned cheekily.

He smiled at her, at first glance a calm girl, hiding wit and fire behind green eyes. 

“You’re already my favorite of the bunch. Not that you have much competition,” he shot a glance towards Lambert, who had some of his drink trickling down his chin as he chugged. “Your gear looks truly imposing, but the thing about leather is-- well if you show me some stowed away, ready to go food I can tell you. Might even kick Lambert for that comment earlier.”

“You don’t know me that way,” Lambert threatened.

Jaskier grinned.

Ciri indicated for him to follow her, leading him into a well-stocked pantry which truly was a wish come true. The shelves were lined with dried fruits and meats, rows upon rows of cheese wheels and expensive nuts and wines. Berries preserved in different types of liquor and rare spices were stocked in the back. Jaskier made sure to smell the containers, trying and failing to recognize the contents. 

“I’m not allowed to eat or drink half of these things, Geralt is very strict about alcohol, despite the fact that gran--” the girl broke off her explanation, shoulders hunched and expression sullen. 

“One day,” he reassured her, patting her head briefly before redirecting his attention to the food. 

“They don’t give witchers enough credit,” Jaskier sighed into the space, absolutely enchanted by the selection. The witchers surely wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to some. He caught Ciri looking at him with raised brows, clearly waiting for what had been promised. 

“Right! The thing about leather is it chafes. You should wear a blouse underneath so it doesn’t hurt after a while.” Her eyes went wide and she nodded.

***

“Why do Geralt’s free-loaders all love food so much?” he heard Lambert say to Eskel as Jaskier emerged with a handful of chestnuts and some jerky clutched between his teeth. 

“Who doesn’t like food?” Eskel asked.

“Eskel! Truly a man after my heart,” Jaskier praised. 

“So food is what it takes for you to forgive the Axii-incident?” Jaskier nodded, chewing with gusto as Ciri trailed out after him, mouth equally full. He had thought it had been Aard, but then he most likely would have suffered a concussion.

“Well with possible revenge plots out of the equation, we might as well use this time to show you around,” Eskel offered. 

“Lead the way! You coming Ciri?”

She shrugged then nodded. “Geralt’s asleep isn’t he? And Eskel only ever shows off the boring stuff, so I have to help out.”

The boring stuff, as it turned out, was a tour of the premises-- the lavatories, the well outside, to fetch water, the stables, the training area and the herb garden. There, the witchers grew important potion ingredients that were not native to the woods surrounding the keep. Besides stables and the large bailey, the inner courtyard and the architecture of the structure itself impressed Jaskier enough to ask Eskel about it. 

“Beauty, isn’t she? Though she’s crumbling. Elven architecture. Keep used to be known as Caer a'Muirehen.”

“Old Sea Keep?”

Eskel looked surprised but didn’t comment. A bit of annoyance at that didn’t stop Jaskier from enjoying the attention being underestimated inevitably gained him, every time without fail. 

As the tour continued, he marveled at the vastness of the construction.

Large doorways led into the fort and then deeper and deeper into the kitchens and dormitories. The rooms were enormous, the ceiling high. It was a pity that so much had been destroyed. The hidden knowledge in these halls must have been incredible -- alone in the old unused laboratories, workshops and offices that were now either destroyed or collecting dust potentially offered so much. 

They ended up at the library of the keep.

“This collection is too impressive to be left to wither like this, does no one take care of these books?”

Eskel shrugged. “I used to, as a kid. We all used to help. But I’m sure Geralt told you what happened.”

He had indeed, one drunken night when they’d chanced upon some white gull with another witcher named Letho.

“After that, we just stopped seeing the point.”

Jaskier was about to protest to bring up that people were willing to die for the knowledge preserved in Oxenfurt’s library and would certainly do so for this library as well, but Ciri seemed to have other plans than to indulge another boring conversation such as this.

“Now’s my turn, come on!” she demanded, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him along. 

“Have fun. I have to go tend to the horses -- Might as well, with Geralt rendering the schedule redundant today. Seems he’ll be out all day”

“He looked very tired this morning, Eskel. He was away for two days and I’m guessing he didn’t sleep much last night. I'm just happy Jaskier managed to convince him to go to bed,” Ciri threw in, defending the witcher in his absence. It hadn't taken much convincing, he realized now.

“Meditated all night and still wasn’t rested, as you saw. Where was he those two days he was away?” Jaskier asked, hoping either of them could give an answer. 

“I can’t really talk about this. I’m sure he’ll tell you if you ask him in private.” 

Ciri arched her eyebrows in disdain. “I hate that you keep secrets.”

“Sorry, little princess,” Eskel did not seem very sorry. “He’ll tell you too in due time.”

She protested, saying she wasn’t little and Eskel ruffled her hair. With that Eskel raised a hand to wave goodbye, already turning away and leaving the library, following the stairs up. 

“He said horses. I'm pretty sure the horses aren't up there.” Jaskier whispered to Ciri.

“Uncle Vesemir's office.”

She reached for his sleeve again and pulled him along. 

Cirilla's tour really was different and much more interesting. She took him to the not so secret places of the keep the witchers didn’t deem noteworthy and explained how full of stories they truly were. She showed him the dining hall - exorbitantly vast and clearly designed for many people. She told him the witchers had moved a single table from the hall into the kitchens and ate there now. She thought it was because the hall served as a reminder and they were sad about their dead brothers. Sadly, Jaskier thought she was spot on about that. He couldn’t even imagine the pain this fort held for Geralt and his brothers. 

She told him that Geralt spent as much time with her as he could, taking her on expeditions where she learned about the local fauna, what was edible, what was useful and what should be avoided at all cost. Jaskier told her not to always take his word at face value, sharing with her the time Geralt had forgotten that Jaskier’s tolerance to toxins was different and made a soup with mushrooms that were harmless to the witcher, but would have had undisclosed effects on Jaskier had Geralt not hissed ‘fuck’ and knocked the bowl and spoon out of his hands at the very last minute, looking absolutely bewildered at the mistake. Jaskier would never forget that expression.

Cirilla giggled. “Now I get why you two are such good friends. You’re telling me about the time he almost killed you with the biggest smile ever. You’re mad!”

Jaskier grinned. “ _One_ of the times he almost killed me! I'm a lucky guy. But those are stories for a different time.”

As she led him further through the keep, she explained that Geralt had begun teaching her to hunt and skin small animals, never to take more than she needed, how to preserve it and how to know exactly what she needed. Her education was still ongoing but judging by what she recounted, the witcher was a diligent and thorough teacher, even fun at times. He told her stories in the evening and it was usually a lot of fun to spend time with him. Geralt, saying more than two syllables at once. Well, he tended to exaggerate his friend's talkativeness or lack thereof a lot, but still. Stories used to be a thing of drunken stupor.

She seemed excited about her education, eager to learn and absolutely in awe of Geralt. Her regard for him nearly bordered on hero worship. It was adorable.

Cirilla led him though convoluted halls up a winding flight of stairs and into the dorms. She excitedly told him about her discovery of old letters and diaries some of the boys who had studied there had written. She wanted to read him her favorite one and he let her, mostly out of artistic curiosity and with the prospect of potentially good song material in mind. 

So she read to him, as she sat on one of the twelve beds in that particular sleeping chamber. Jaskier sat on the dusty floor by the foot of the bed. It was grey, cold, empty and so devoid of life, he felt it a crime to house children there. 

Cirilla unfolded a piece of paper. It was the yellowed letter of a nameless boy, who apparently had deemed it not necessary to sign anything beyond ‘your witcher’, addressed to his mother. He wrote of life at Kaer Morhen, as it had been many years ago. That particular day had been a happy one, one filled with free time to go hike to and swim in a pond, enjoying great fun with the other boys. 

The letter took a turn however, when it became painfully clear that the boy’s mother was dead and he was writing to her with the certainty that she was looking over his shoulders, reading every word. Well, that was just great, that Ciri spent her days indulging in morose moods.

“Poor boy.” Cirilla said, her expression grave.

Jaskier studied her trying to gauge her emotional state to say something helpful without seeming patronizing. “What are you thinking?”

She looked down at him and he saw how sad her eyes were. No child should have eyes that sad. 

“I like that… I don’t know how to say it. I like that she’s still there with him? Even though she’s not. I know that.”

Maybe this was good for Ciri, maybe destiny really was right. Bringing Ciri and Geralt together. A guardian who knew the burden of having such sad eyes as a child. He had no trouble imagining a young Geralt growing up here, alone, the happy beaten out of him, worked and eventually experimented on. 

“Do you feel the same?”

“I’m not sure. Like, today, when I put on my new gear I felt so strong and I just kept thinking I was feeling my grandmother’s strength. It’s silly, I know.” 

“Not at all. I really like that. You’re making all of them proud you know.”

“How? I just ran away while they died. A friend of mine said something similar recently and it stuck with me. So many people were hurt and I think it’s because of me. Yennefer is gone, because of me and I never even met her in person.”

His mind got hung up in her phrasing for a second, before he decided to put that aside for now. This little girl, no more than 14 years old, was shouldering the blame of a war she was entirely blameless in. It broke Jaskier’s heart but he knew his words could only do so much at that moment. This needed time and dedication from everyone around her. 

“Cirilla, listen to me,” he turned more towards her, angling a leg under the bed. “I’m going to give it to you straight. It’s not your fault what happened and you could not have stopped it. You are not responsible for other people's actions, only for your own. And your own actions were the right ones, you did what your family wanted you to do, because they love you and need you safe. ”

She lurched forward and hugged him, made awkward by their different elevations. “I like that you say ‘love’ and ‘need’ as if they are looking over my shoulder.”

She wasn’t crying but she was painfully digging her fingers into his back, as if grounding herself. 

“I’m not naive, Jaskier, I know… what you said. But I feel so guilty nevertheless and it’s-- suffocating”

“Survivor’s guilt is tough. I’m sorry you have to feel this but we’re here to support you, you know that right? This will take time.” He stroked her hair soothingly.

“She said something similar.”

“Who?”

“Someone important.”

Jaskier decided it was best not to push her in case she was referring to someone she’d lost.

Then her stomach gave a big growl and she pulled back from him, face red.

Jaskier heard Geralt clear his throat in the doorway.

“Why don’t you give me a minute with Jaskier, Ciri? Maybe check out that demonic concoction Lambert has conjured up. He calls it ‘lunch’, but it’s orange and he’s elbow deep in it, so I’m not sure even you could save it.”

Ciri jumped off the bed, waving goodbye to Jaskier and rushing down the stairs, already shouting, “Uncle Lambert what’s that smell?!”

“Were you spying on us?” Jaskier teased. 

Geralt ignored him, choosing to join Jaskier on the floor for an adult conversation. Ugh. 

“You’re good with her. I had no idea she felt that way.”

He leaned against the bed besides Jaskier.

“Eavesdropping is rude, you know?”

“Hm.” A shrug.

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve barely interacted with her Geralt, but I’ve always told you you got a good kid there.” Geralt now tipped his head back onto the bed, shutting his eyes.

“I know. I’m glad I finally got to know her. But she... deserves better.”

“Oh come on, Geralt.”

The witcher's brows furrowed. “She lost everyone she loved and is now stuck with me. I ruin things. It’s no secret.” 

It hit him then, like a slap square in the face, his heart broke on it.

“That’s why you stayed away from Ciri. Not because you wanted to deny destiny.” 

Geralt tensed. He tensed and remained silent and Jaskier knew this was a confirmation. 

“Don’t you dare sabotage your relationship to this kid, Geralt. None of that horse dung about not having feelings, we both know it's a lie to protect you and earn you more coin. You have more feeling in a single finger than most men I know. And she’s lucky she had you instead of being out there with someone else. Could you imagine Valdo taking care of her. I feel like crying just thinking about it.” 

This conversation, like the one they'd had that morning, made Jaskier realize that Geralt had indeed changed since he’d last seen him. Just not in the way he had been dreading. Yes, he still avoided eye-contact, eyes shut and face angled ahead, but he was still here. Geralt had… grown. Was more open to emotional confrontation. He talked more, shared more. Had this change occurred because of Ciri’s influence? In any way, Jaskier appreciated it greatly.

“I ruined so much, Jaskier. Yen-- I don’t even know where she is.” 

_Or if she is_ , Jaskier thought. 

“Hey, Geralt. You always figure it out. And if you need pointers with fatherhood, I can give you unqualified advice any time.” 

“Have you ever given me qualified advice?” the witcher asked, dead serious. Jaskier studied his own hands to avert his gaze from the curved line of Geralt's nose, the angles of his face, of his jawline that he was for once so free to study. 

“Uh, of-ploughing-course I have.”

He gesticulated, despite the fact that Geralt wasn't looking.

“Like that time you had insomnia and I told you to sleep? Worth gold. Or when you had that fight with Yen and I told you about that position that fixes the unfixable.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Sweet as a peach, I assure you.”

“Can Benji attest to that?” Geralt asked, opening an eye and giving him a side-ways glance. Jaskier felt a warm shiver, feeling that there was something about the situation he wasn’t understanding somehow. Geralt’s teasing could be dry, yes, but this seemed… off. 

“Forget Benji. More mature men maybe," he winked at Geralt as the man angled his body towards him, faced him, a sideways grin on his lips and elbow leaning on the bed. 

“Yeah?” 

It felt off, something was different. He panicked. 

“I’m, of course, talking about Vesemir.”

Geralt sighed and let himself fall back into his initial pose, back against the bed and head tipped back. 

“Fuck, Jas, would you not besmirch my mentor’s name,” Geralt grunted, sounding disappointed.

Jaskier laughed, he didn’t know why the witcher still felt let down, when he knew Jaskier well enough to have guessed where this was going. Parental figures were going to get besmirched every time he had a say in the matter.

“I’d never bring daddy into this.”

Yes, Jaskier had found the line and crossed it. But Geralt did a weird transition from disappointment, to an actual _proper_ laugh, which was now Jaskier's favorite new thing, before turning an unflattering white. Jaskier thought his words were not even that scandalous.

A cough came from the door and Jaskier turned to find the cause of his friend’s pale complexion -- Vesemir was standing just outside the room, arms crossed and expression grave, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. 

“I assume that’s…”

“Nice to meet you, Jaskier. Yes, I suppose I’m daddy in this scenario.”

Fuck. 

***

“Please bludgeon me to death,” he whispered to Geralt.

“I might not get the chance to.” Geralt grunted back, getting to his feet and pulling Jaskier up with him. 

“I apologize, witcher, Sir. I--”

“Now that you kids are done giggling on the floor, I’d appreciate it if you lent me some of your clearly well used time. Especially you Geralt, with Ciri torturing Lambert downstairs.”

Vesemir turned, indicating for the two men to follow, both of them embarrassed for different reasons.

Yuck. So Geralt’s stern scary dad who he had never met before probably already disapproved of him because he was a dumb bard who couldn’t hold his tongue. Seemed like no one wanted to make this easy for him. Except for Ciri of course, she was a delight. 

But he’d be fine. He had more than enough experience with angry parental figures, he’d been running from them all his life after all, starting with his own. Mostly maiden’s angry fathers after that, but he’d manage this too.

Jaskier studied Vesemir as he walked ahead, leading them up the stairs to what the bard assumed was his office. He looked… old. Somehow it was truly off-putting. All the witchers he knew were about middle-aged of course, but Jaskier had spent the better part of twenty-two years listening to Geralt go on and on about how witchers didn’t grow old.

He looked over at Geralt. Had he aged since they had met more than 20 years ago? Had Jaskier missed it? The witcher noticed Jaskier’s gaze upon him and quirked up a questioning eyebrow. Jaskier merely shook his head.

“Please come in and make yourselves comfortable.” Vesemir had led them into a room that would make Shani blush in shame when she compared it to her own vast office and symbol of power. The thought made Jaskier smile fondly and remember to bring up Oxenfurt's library to Geralt when the time was right. 

“Eskel,” Geralt greeted the witcher that was already seated on an armchair inside. 

“Geralt, Jaskier. Lambert is watching Ciri but we’ll fill him in later,” Eskel explained, not facing them.

Jaskier had noticed that he always sat on the sidelines, scars turned away from those around him. He never fully turned when someone spoke next to him, always making sure not much of the markings was visible, his hair doing a poor job of covering them. He never moved his face into a smile or other expression that would make the scars crease or ore noticeable. It struck Jaskier as odd, considering how Geralt wore his own scars with varying degrees of nonchalance and sometimes even pride.

He sat on a leather armchair and Geralt moved to stand behind him, despite there being more seating options. Jaskier liked that a lot.

Vesemir took some cups from a cabinet by the door and grabbed a bottle of liquor on his way over to the table where they were seated and stood. He remained silent all throughout the process of elbowing papers aside to set the cups down and then slowly commenced pouring the alcohol in generous amounts. It had the effect Jaskier supposed the old man intended - it was intimidating and deeply unsettling. Jaskier glanced up at Geralt, who rolled his eyes for Jaskier’s benefit, demonstrating annoyance and amusement at his mentor’s theatrics. It reassured Jaskier immensely. 

“Help yourselves, boys," Vesemir finally offered, pushing a cup towards each of them. Jaskier grabbed two and passed one to Geralt. 

“Thank you. Uhm… I’m guessing this is about my presence here?” Jaskier asked. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. Jaskier, is it?” 

He was sure the old man knew his name, he had just said it not ten minutes ago, after all. Jaskier took a sip to take the edge off the annoyance he felt at obvious techniques meant to make him feel small. 

“Yes, the humble bard who graced a ride along and so on. If this isn’t about that though, then what--”

“It’s about Yennefer. About time to fill you in, don’t you think? I doubt anything useful will come from this, but a fresh perspective can never hurt.”

“After probing him with a silver cup? I’d say filling him in is the least you could do,” Geralt grumbled. Of course, no surprise there, though Geralt seemed pissed enough that Jaskier felt like he should be more bothered than he really was. Maybe because he knew their history and that this was for the protection of Vesemir’s remaining family. 

“It’s fine, Geralt. Regarding Yen, my information is a bit sparse, to be quite honest, I think you might know more.”

“Let’s still start with what _you_ know.”

“Shani said something about…” Jaskier trailed off, afraid to hurt Geralt with his words. 

“You can say it, Jaskier. Death. They say she died at Sodden, before Foltest even arrived,” Geralt’s gravelly voice came from behind. 

“Yes. False rumors though, I’m certain.” 

“I’m not. Everything points to the conclusion that she incinerated herself,” Vesemir stated matter-of-factly. “But while it is true that she has not been seen since, not even her remains, Geralt insists she yet lives.” 

“I'd feel her death, I think.”

Geralt finally walked around and sat in another armchair, setting his cup down, then leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He looked defeated like this, broken and tired. Jaskier wanted nothing more than to reach out.

“Our fates are tied and I’m sure I would know if she had died.”

Jaskier contemplated for a second. “So let’s say you’d know -- I’m not disregarding that notion -- Shouldn’t you be able to tell that she’s alive as well? Fate binding connections should go both ways and not just if she passed?”

“It might be the djinn’s corruption of the bond it established between them. There’s always some cruel twist -- is it not better to have them feel the pain of the other’s death instead of being reassured the other was alive?” Eskel suggested. 

Vesemir nodded, stroking his beard. “That’s typically how djinn operate.” 

Jaskier started thinking out loud. “If the bond theory holds true, if she’s not one of the charred bodies found out there, if her magic didn’t overwhelm her --”

“It didn’t. Her allies were untouched by the fire she unleashed -- how would she be able to be so precise if she’d been overwhelmed?” Geralt interrupted. 

“Okay. Okay, good point. So maybe she was taken as a prisoner of war? Was there anyone by her side who could have witnessed all that?” 

“After I found Ciri and brought her to Aretuza, I turned every stone on that battlefield, I don’t think anyone who could have taken her survived for miles. More than enough time to get away. Even if - reinforcements would have cut them off.”

“Except if it was another sorceress. On the Nilfgaardian side maybe. Have you talked to Triss?”

“Yes. She was wounded and.. Well, busy-- she didn’t see Yen unleash her chaos, only saw the destruction. She’s as lost as we are. And I can’t find Tissaia, her former mentor anywhere.” 

Eskel cleared his throat. “You’ve been out a lot Geralt, we actually thought maybe you have something new to tell us.” Jaskier didn't miss the look he exchanged with Vesemir. They were worried. 

The white wolf looked down at his feet. When he looked back up, he seemed determined. 

“It’s not about Yen or Tissaia. You’ve heard Ciri scream at night?” It wasn't a question, not really.

Jaskier hadn't yet witnessed such a thing, but as he looked from Vesemir to Eskel he clearly saw it in their faces -- they had and they hated it. 

“I first saw it happen at Aretuza. Night terrors from all the war has shown her. Triss gave me a recipe for a potion that would help but the ingredients are hard to find. I’ve been looking for them. Until yesterday I was out for two days to come back with a meager bundle of plants I’ve collected from the blue mountains. It’s far from enough, most of it will most likely go to waste as I try to figure out the tricky dosages of this potion and I don’t know how to get a steady supply for her.” 

Jaskier felt a deep ache at his friend looking so beat down and helpless, he couldn't bare it any longer. He gave in an quickly reached out to squeeze his shoulder, to silently tell him he didn’t have to figure it out alone. Geralt shot him a grateful look and Jaskier took back his hand, despite everything in him revolting against the action. 

It was hard to see a man usually completely in control lose it and a child, so young and innocent, suffer a pain she shouldn’t know yet. Jaskier privately swore he’d do anything he could to help change things. And it struck him, how if Yen was here, she’d be centering Geralt and Ciri. She’d have figured out the potion already and taken half the load of raising a child off Geralt’s shoulders. Not that the others weren't helping. But she would have made him relax, because it was Yennefer of Vengeberg, the most capable person on earth who would be co-parenting a kid with him. 

It was Eskel who spoke up in the silence that seemed to stretch between them. “Maybe we could cultivate some of these plants in the garden. It will be hard, with the soil and all, but Merigold might be able to aid in that, don’t you think?”

Geralt sat up at that, sorrow almost wiped from his face, open and vulnerable and hopeful. “You really think that’s possible?”

Eskel shrugged. “Worth a try.”

Vesemir looked stern. “More guests?”

“It’s for Ciri!” Jaskier said indignantly. 

The old man sighed. “Which is why I’ll approve it. Just please tell me she talks less shit than this one.”

Jaskier absolutely would have jumped aboard the obvious attempt to lighten the mood and defended his honor, but before he could a giggle came from the door. 

“A room full of witchers and no one noticed Cirilla eavesdropping?”

“Oh we did,” Vesemir said. 

“She’s only just come up. I’m sure she only caught that one insult you deserved,” Geralt explained, earning him a shoulder punch. 

“You can come in, Ciri.”

A crash came from outside the door, before it burst open and Ciri came running in, pursued by Lambert who was covered in mud. 

“I’ll get you, you little nuisance!” he bellowed, throwing himself at her, certain he’d easily grab her. But Ciri was surprisingly quick, ducking under Lambert’s arms and hauling herself onto Geralt’s back for protection. 

“Lambert, Ciri, you’re tracking mud onto my carpets!” Vesemir bellowed, making both the witchers and the princess still in their movements. 

Eskel rose. 

“I’ll make sure they bathe and clean the floors.” 

“Oh come on, the little demon fought dirty, literally-- hardly my fault,” Lambert defended gesturing wildly. 

“Uncle Lambert’s just angry that I _almost_ beat him at sparring this time,” Ciri giggled, her back against Geralt’s, her boots climbing the backrest, her muddy armor dirtying his white shirt. 

“Really? Well done,” Geralt praised, eyes going soft. Jaskier smiled even bigger at that. Who would have thought. Not him and certainly not a year ago.

“Don’t encourage her,” Vesemir said.

“Hardly 'almost'--,” Lambert protested.

Eskel grabbed both him and Ciri by the ear, which had the girl quickly scurrying off Geralt, as to not have her ear pulled too hard. The scarred witcher pulled the two of them along like little children, which in a sense, they _both_ still were, Jaskier supposed. It was hilarious and adorable. 

Geralt stood as well. “I have to change too, I guess we’ll talk again soon. Thank you for the drink Vesemir. Are you coming, Jaskier?”

“Yes I--”

“Jaskier, would you please stay behind. I’d like to exchange a few words in private,” Vesemir pointedly looked at Geralt, who in turn directed his eyes at Jaskier, wordlessly asking if he’d be comfortable with that. When Jaskier reluctantly nodded, Geralt shrugged. “I’ll go make sure Cirilla does what she's told then.” 

“Good, about time. You wasted most of the day.” Vesemir crossed his arms.

Geralt frowned, as if about to fight Vesemir on that. He obviously decided against that course of action, briefly placing a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder in goodbye and silently leaving him to what would undoubtedly be a painful and embarrassing experience. 

Wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twitter @iItryIok


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